Miscellaneous

Doodle Dad Life

Posted on by Patrick L. Mitchell

On January 17, the year of our Lord, 2023, I took our Goldendoodle to the groomer for a trim. Tucker is his name. Properly, Tucker Scout Mitchell. He has a full three names in his name. That’s how much of a doodle dad I am.

The backstory of why we have a doodle is pretty simple. My wife doesn’t like hair on her pants. Or couch. Or floor. To be fair, neither do I. Thus, the doodle is a genetically engineered dog for people who don’t actually want a dog.

Cute, right?

If you’ve never tried to purchase a Goldendoodle, or a black market vital organ, just know that the process is similar to that of the Hunger Games. There are lists, down payments, and alliances… If someone else on the list ahead of you mysteriously vanishes, it’s not all loss and isn’t your fault.

The etymology of Doodle, it turns out, is German for, this dog will cost you everything.

You see, doodles require meticulous grooming. I am lucky if my three human daughters’ hair gets brushed every day.

I Wanted a Dog the Least

When Tucker does get brushed, it’s usually because I brush him. I pretty much do the most for him which makes sense because I wanted him the least.

And I knew what would happen.

Against my otherwise unbreakable will, I’ve bonded with the bugger. He went to work with me on the daily for a year coming out of COVID protocols. We’re thick as thieves. It’s to the point that I actually felt some anxiety leaving him with the groomer. Granted, I feel anxious 80% of the time, so there wasn’t a lot to be concerned about.

My greater concern was the end of the day.

8 Hours Later

Pickup time.

Like many businesses, the groomer decided that even after Covid the whole not interacting with people was best for everyone. You arrive, call the number posted outside, and they bring your beloved pup out to you.

Waiting in the car on a dreary day, having wondered hour after hour what Tucker would look like, I was strangely giddy and slightly fearful for what I’d see.

The rain falls. I wait.

Sheila emerges from a concrete path lined by hedges. It was as dramatic a scene as my Tennessee Volunteers running through the T in Neyland Stadium.

Then I saw a dog trailing somewhat slothfully behind Sheila. I felt sorry for whoever was taking that one home. Not only was the dog mostly hairless, but I’m also fairly certain its soul had been taken in the process.

Sheila passed by the only other car in the pick-up zone. Oh dear. Clearly, Sheila has made a mistake. This wasn’t my precious Tucker. When Sheila opened the back door and put the animal in my car, it acted like it knew me. At that moment I realized I was going home with this doodle lite version of a doodle.

The part of the exchange I appreciated the most was when Sheila vocalized that she had to shave Tucker. That felt like an unspoken to me since I’d dropped off the likes of Chewbacca that morning.

I joked around a bit about not liking his hair anyways, and she struck back fast.

“Yeah…he’s an every day brush.”

Excuse me?

“You have to brush him every single day. And make sure you work around his mouth to get him used to that so he doesn’t nip at me next time.”

Noted.

There’s More…

Like an aging mother telling her adult child all of the unfortunate things happening with her body, Sheila then informed me that she’d gotten really deep into his ears and cleaned those out. “He’ll be shaking his head quite a bit for the next few days.” Apparently, whatever hair the doodle doesn’t shed just relocates to its ears. Super.

“And don’t worry if he forms some hematomas around his ears, that’s normal.”

I’m not a doctor, Sheila.

One Last Thing

I was ready to say thanks and head on to hear the collective groan of my family, but she wasn’t done. Sheila leaned in(to) my rolled-down driver-side window. Real serious-like she lowered her volume and flattened her tone, “Just so you know, his anal glands were about half full.”

And then she just kept staring into my eyes, as if to say, “I think you know what I’m saying.” 

I did not.

Is 50 a good percentage of anal gland fullness?

How are we keeping score? Is this like golf where the lower number is better, or are we playing basketball and I need to get more into those glands to win the game? What are we even doing at this point, Sheila? What is this dance?

All I know is I dropped off a vibrant, one-and-a-half-year-old doodle who seemed pretty satisfied with his hairiness and his anal glands at the time, and I was going home with the equivalent of a 94-year-old man who needs around-the-clock care and is most definitely going to pass the time by scooting his rear across my living room rug. 

But it’s fine because there is absolutely no hair getting on my wife’s pants. 

Blubber: a story of staying pudgy

Posted on by Patrick L. Mitchell

This follow-up to my non-viral post, the most vulnerable thing I’ve ever written to people on the Internet, is really more of a prequel, which makes this a lot like whatever happened with the Star Wars movies.

How did I get to the point of not loving me? That sounds too inclusive. It’s not all of me, just the physical me, so no big deal.

It took a while to get here, but let me let you join me on the journey.

I wasn’t always pudgy. No. There were pre-pudge glory years of an eon past.

Domination to Deflation

The year was 1990. The place, my hometown of Knoxville, Tennessee. The setting was the Knox County area elementary field day. You can sense the excitement and anticipation in the stands, filled to overflowing with hundreds of kids stupefied by classmates hopping around in potato sacks.

I didn’t participate in an honorable mention event, though, people of the Internet. I was fast. No lie. Like a Nick Cage movie to DVD fast.

My event was the 100-yard dash. I owned it, probably due to the stellar coaching of my PE teacher who was none other than Kenny Chesney’s dad. I never met Kenny. But, add 100ish pounds to the blue chair sittin’ fella holding the pirate flag and chilled rum concoction, and that’s Kenny’s dad.

A slight slip on some loose gravel at the sound of the starting gun meant I had ground to make up. But I already told you. I was fast. I won that race in 1990.

I’d never win another one (until I had kids and totally dominate).

The following year at our school field day/qualifying meet of the now-defunct Giffin Elementary, I came in third place. How did it happen? I didn’t trip or even pull a hammy a la ESPN 30 for 30 style. I was just flat out slower.

The Downfall

So what happened? How was my glory so short-lived? Were my socks too high (not possible, it was ’91)? Was my shirt tucked too tightly into the elastic waistband of my shorts? I need to know why!

It’s pretty simple, actually. Corn dogs.

Corn dogs and mashed potatoes and chicken-and-dumplings and Dr. Pepper and Cheese Wiz and copious amounts of banana pudding.

My heart didn’t quit on me that field day. My metabolism did.

That may not be 100% accurate, scientifically speaking, but it feels right, so let’s run with it.

I was an active kid. Riding my bike around the hood, playing basketball, baseball, 1.5 years of football (apparently it’s full contact, not a fan), tennis. But such activity couldn’t compete with my soul-deep desire for biscuits and gravy and milk…always milk.

Fashionably Unfit

My speed faded as fast as MySpace. But something else happened, an inexplicable phenomenon that was beyond my control.

Silk shirts happened.

Button up silk shirts, to be exact. I was given a couple as gifts, probably along with socks and a serving of gravy at Christmastime.

I wore them. Proudly apparently, since, enshrined evermore in my parent’s house is a school picture of me in the multi-striped silky of fifth grade, rivaled only by that of Joseph’s coat of many colors. That shirt, as fly as it was, couldn’t hide a couple of new features I was sporting.

  1. A less defined chin. Sure to capture the admiration of all lady people, my neck was growing upward. Strange.
  2. A mysterious case of gynecomastia.

In other words, my face was getting chubby. Also, what’s gynecomastia, you ask? It’s serious, people.

Maybe you know this condition by its street name…man-boob. What causes this mystery illness? Turns out it’s the same root cause of slowness.

Corn dogs and mashed potatoes and chicken-and-dumplings and Dr. Pepper and Cheese Wiz and copious amounts of banana pudding. Did I fail to mention that there is no cheese in Cheese Whiz? It’s just whiz.

Some dudes put on weight in their bellies and it never hits their chests. Others carry the excess in their posteriors or thighs–if only, my friends. My stowaway luggage fits nicely into the ever-so-obvious pectoral region, not to mention my face and tummy. Such is the pattern my fourth-grade self experienced for the first time.

Want proof that I’m still pudgy? My lovely, supportive, sensitive wife just professed her love the other day saying, “I’ve never even seen an ab on you.”

“An.” Just one. That’s all the poor girl wants. She isn’t greedy.

I’d like to give her that ab show–just the one. No more, lest I become vain and call down the Lawd’s wrath.

For Better or Fat

To be fair, I wasn’t ripped, as they say, when my bride and I said our death vows. I wasn’t fat, but I wasn’t svelte. I was pudgy…say it again with me – pudgy. Even that word sounds fat.

Early on in our wedded bliss, we moved to California where people tend to be fit. If not they just own it and wear tighter pants. Kudos to you, California.

I was in seminary and working at a church. Seminary is code for, I’m putting on 30 pounds and you can’t stop me. At 6-feet tall, I was a soft 225 pounds. It wasn’t handsome, burly, or any other manly adjective. The buttons on my shirt were sweating, and I was sweating. Lots of sweating.

Something had to give, mainly because my wife had a hard time looking at me. Mind you, when she did look she couldn’t miss me. So I started running and not eating crap. What happened?

I lost 40 pounds. My gynecomastia was cured! It’s a miracle!!

Yes, science is a miracle. Does that make me a doctor? I don’t know. You be the judge of that.

As a doctor, I discovered that the secret to not being fat is exercise and an appropriate diet (not a crazy can’t keep it up diet, just a healthy way of eating and being). **Disclaimer** Yes, there are actual medical conditions that make weight management difficult.** End disclaimer.

But, even after dropping the weight of a 3-yr-old, did Lindsey see that ab?? Nope. Pay closer attention.

What Now?

I’m working on the pudge purge. Persistence is the name of the game. I’ve made so many plans and set so many lofty goals that I don’t care to do either again. Persistence, though, she’s a gift. Show up each day. Say no to the kids’ scraps from dinner and from eating one of everything that goes in their lunch because that’s eating four extra lunches.

I don’t even like the saying “progress, not perfection” because then I feel crappy that my progress isn’t progressive enough. That’s why I say persistence. I’m becoming the guy who shows up each day. Who says no to the doughnut, even after taking a bite and feeling the shame that leads to spitting it out.

Here’s to the journey. Of course, you’ll be at the top of the list of folks I let know when the elusive abdominal comes out of hibernation.

The most vulnerable thing I have ever written to people on the Internet

Posted on by Patrick L. Mitchell

Computer generated depiction of what I’d look like as Chris Hemsworth playing Thor

I don’t know how to say it or where to start.

It’s incredibly uncomfortable to write.

Here goes — body image has been a big thing for me for a long time.

No turning back.

I used to be thin. Yeah, six was a good age.

But something happened. All the corndogs and bologna just stayed around, as is affixed to my body until death do us part. Weird. If only science had been around in the 80s and early 90s.

Since then, I’ve dreaded summer. Pool time. The beach.

Why say it now, Patrick? Why here? Why trust me with it?

Well, trusted Internet blog reader person, putting myself out there will bring accountability. The incomparable Seth Godin talks about the importance of publishing, putting words out there for people to read or not. The important part is hitting the publish button.

So now you have the weighty responsibility of helping hold me accountable with eating and exercise and endurance training and exciting runs and excruciating foam roller sessions.

Not looking for perfection. The goal is to show up each day. See you tomorrow. Not literally. This is the Internet.

This is why you criticize others

Posted on by Patrick L. Mitchell

I’m pretty good at it.

I’ve trained for it my whole life.

Like Rocky Balboa trains for a fight.

Rising before the sun knows I’m up, with a beard burlier than the night before, efforts aimed at capturing a deer I’m chasing up a Russian mountainside in four feet of snow, while simultaneously processing the emotional devastation of what this all means for my wife, kids, and the sequel…and then eating said deer, raw. The metaphor broke down somewhere, but the deer I’m eating is my ability to criticize.

There’s a lot of time for criticizing, especially if you have a poor work ethic, which I’ve had for much of my life.

I feel better saying it. Confession really is good for the soul.

It’s true. My dad tried to get me to work hard. To clean with great detail, build manly things out of wooden materials, “fix” broken stuff.

One attempt on his part to teach me responsibility and work ethic I remember like it was 30 years ago. He pushed our vintage Snapper riding mower out of the garage and onto the driveway.

After driving it down to the field in the rear of our house, the lesson began. Here’s how to start it. Here’s the blade engage. This pedal makes you go. (I nodded, probably overconfidently so as to compensate for my obviously not understanding.) You also want to look back every now and then to make sure the engine isn’t on fire.

Fire? Like the hot kind?

No, dad. I don’t want to do that. The prospect of burning to death for the sake of a neatly manicured 3/4 of an acre didn’t rouse the manual labor muse within.

I didn’t find my work stride until more recently. Part of it is the job. Part of it is the community of folks I’m around. Part of it is my wife–let’s be honest…a huge part. If I have any parts left, another one is what I’m reading now. Not theology. It’s more practical theology–like the be doers of what you’re reading, not just hearers, part.

Steven Pressfield has written novels, screenplays, and non-fiction kicks in the rear. The latter is what I’ve been devouring the last month.

The War of Art

Turning Pro

Do the Work

These are gold mines for me. The principles therein are such that I can superimpose them on the last decade of my life and then wish Uncle Rico’s time machine really worked so I could go back and do a lot of things very differently.

At least I found them at 36 and not 46. Those of you who are 46 know what I’m saying, right?

Here I am now. Learning and growing. Growing and learning. The learning usually has to do with some deficiency deep on my withinside.

In The War of Art, I appreciated Pressfield adding this biographical portion about me –

If you find yourself criticizing other people, you’re probably doing it out of Resistance. When we see others beginning to live their authentic selves, it drives us crazy if we have not lived our own.

The War of Art, p. 38

Thanks, Steve. May I call you Steve?

Translation: We criticize others who are moving closer to becoming who they really are.

They’ve pushed through resistance and done the hard work of doing the work. And when I, you, we see someone do that, we can’t help but be envious. So we find something not to like.

Ah, but what (who) we really don’t like is ourselves. In that way, rather than scratching the itch to criticize, let it serve as a built-in reality check. What am I not doing that I want to be doing? What have I not accomplished? What have I given up on? What resistance am I permitting to keep me from becoming who I really am?

Who knows. Maybe you and I will be criticized one day.

The Better You’ve Been Longing For

Posted on by Patrick L. Mitchell

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Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash

Welcome to part 3 of this lovely series on why happiness eludes you, experiences disappoint you, and dreams deceive you.

In case you’re just joining in, I’ll give you the bottom line — it boils down to the idea of better. You can read parts 1 and 2 to catch up or fall asleep, your choice.

For those picking up after part deux, you were left with but a centimeter of your posterior hanging on the edge of your seat, wondering what in the world happens in Hebrews 11 to these men and women who lived by faith and died in faith, having never witnessed or grasped that for which they so deeply longed.

There are two helpful summaries about these men and women in relation to better.

Summary 1 is Hebrews 11.13-16.

These all died in faith, although they had not received the things that were promised. But they saw them from a distance, greeted them, and confessed that they were foreigners and temporary residents on the earth. 14 Now those who say such things make it clear that they are seeking a homeland. 15 If they were thinking about where they came from, they would have had an opportunity to return. 16 But they now desire a better place—a heavenly one. Therefore, God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city for them. 

Summary 2 comes at the end of the chapter in verses 39 and 40.

All these were approved through their faith, but they did not receive what was promised, 40 since God had provided something better for us, so that they would not be made perfect without us.

So these faithful men and women who’ve gone before us by thousands of years, listened and obeyed God–not perfectly–but to the point that it was clear their better was not a better to be grasped in this world.

This feels like that moment where the preacher has no application and leans hard on  aren’t you glad heaven is waiting? Now, let’s stand and sing eight stanzas of I’ll Fly Away into Beulah Land somewhere over Jordan!

So yes, no wool to pull over your eyes, the better is forever. It’s eternity. It’s with God in His presence for eternity.

But I don’t think that is the main point for the writer of Hebrews. There is a pursuit of better here and now. The letter doesn’t continue on with a charge to suck it up until you die. 

Chapter 12 carries on with physically vigorous exercise words like lay aside every hindrance/weight and run the race with endurance. There’s no passive laisse faire spiritual gobbly goop there.

Run. Keep your eyes fixed on Jesus. He’s the one who got you started, and he’s the one who will get you across the finish line.

And oh that moment. That moment when your race is done. That moment when I fall into the arms of my Savior. That moment.

Having never laid hands or eyes on that which we longed and lived for, we will know in an instant that nothing was done in vain. We will be reassured one billion times over that there was nothing or no one on earth worth trading for a city that only God can build and an inheritance that only God can afford.

  • That moment will be better than whatever awkward bliss you can achieve with your girlfriend or boyfriend in your car or your apartment.
  • It will be better than whatever subdivision you dream of living in but can’t seem to afford.
  • It will be better than that car or lifted truck or boat or house or outfit or purse or batting average or GPA that you think will satisfy your itch for better or make your dad proud.

What’s it all mean?

May I be blunt? Of course I can; I’m writing.

There is no better this world affords that will be better enough.

It feels wrong to say it, type it, read it, believe it. But it’s true.

The only better that will satisfy is the better that lasts forever.

An obsession with that better will yield a life of beauty and purpose here and now. There is something about looking out and walking the path of long obedience that, invisibly and invariably, satisfies in the end.

For lack of a better word, it’s better.

I  will conclude this series next time with my own grasping for better story.

Until then.

 

Update on the book I said I was going to write when I started the blog several years ago…

Posted on by Patrick L. Mitchell

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In the yesteryear of 2011, I wrote a blog about writing a book. You probably remember it if you were one of the 22 blessed people who read viewed it.  Viewed is ambiguous.

Wouldn’t it be exciting to learn that I finished the book!?! What I Didn’t Learn in Seminary: 9 Courses I Never Took but Would Have Failed, is the working title…for the book that I haven’t worked on in, ohhh, five years.

So. Yeah. It’s not done. Not. Even. Close.

I’m not surprised. Mainly because I haven’t written. I should say, I haven’t made a habit of writing.

The finished product is great, in my brains. That’s where the book lives and where it’s gone to die. #Condolences

But I’ve been inspired of late, which I just read has nothing to do with actually finishing a creative work. So that’s a bummer.

Inspiration is cute, like a kitten. Just before you get too close to the kitten’s face while hard whispering “Aren’t you cute? Yesh you are, yesh you are” and then the cat swats you across your puckered lips just to remind you he’s heartless and has no true need of you.

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Photo by burak kostak from Pexels

Clearly what I’m saying is that inspiration is a great excuse to get nothing done.

“I’m not feeling inspired,” you quip to your supervisor. “Oh, by all means, don’t come back to work until your inspiration is replenished, valued worker.”

Nope. You just go to work.

And I just have to write.

So I started again today. Lucky you.

Since legion of you have asked, yes, I’ll finish the seminary bad pastor book. At least I’m smart enough now to know it won’t happen in one super unrealistic inspired weekend.

 

When “one day” is today but was actually every other day

Posted on by Patrick L. Mitchell

antique-black-and-white-classic-163116

Headline news—-It’s raining. In Savannah. Again.

Actual blog post:

For the last 10 years or so I’ve said one day countless times.

One day, when I’m not in school and working, I’ll …

One day, when I’m not working and waking up in the middle of the night to change diapers and help with baby feedings I’ll…

One day, when I’m not working two jobs I’ll…

One day, when I’m not working two jobs and finishing another degree I’ll…

And back again to: one day, when I’m not working two jobs I’ll…

Well lah-di-dah, it would appear that “one day” has arrived. “One day” has come. One day has become today.

I have one job. I’m not working at a school and a church. Just a school. A great school. The Habersham School (with a fine new website).

While there is much work to do and plenty to keep me busy, it’s still one day. And that means I have written pages upon pages of a book, right? I’ve researched and taken notes on topics about which I plant to write, right? I’m blogging multiple times a week, right?

Nah. I’ve blogged a couple times in as many months. No pages for a book. Not even a sentence.

I’m writing a blog about how I haven’t written anything, so this should count for something.

It turns out that “one day” isn’t as situational or circumstantial as I thought. One day is about discipline. It’s habit. Which means that one day has been every other day prior to today.

Crap. I wasted a lot of todays waiting on one day.

How, then, do I work, spend quality time with my kids, date my wife, workout, cultivate spiritual health, AND write. Your AND may be something else–dance, create art, start a business, travel, lose 10lbs–mine has always been write (and lose 10lbs).

There has to be something to do to-day that will demystify your one day and make it more achievable. There’s a discipline or habit or practice to start, or, to stop. It’s one less meal…another practice session…500 more words…another page…two more sets…something.

Here’s to your efforts at bringing one day into today!

Two significant lies about significance, part 2

Posted on by Patrick L. Mitchell

Rembrandt-Wikipedia

Rembrandt’s “The Unconscious Patient (An Allegory of Smell)”

In part 1 I addressed lie #1 that Satan speaks regarding significance — You’re not important.

I don’t know how many times I’ve heard that whispered in my subconscious ear, but it’s more than I care to count. Lies are always combated by truth, though. And the truth of the matter is that you (and I) are a work of God and are loved by God. That, dear friend, is your identity.

And as I said in part 1, identity precedes responsibility in God’s economy.

The second lie has to do with responsibility.

Before getting to that lie, though, follow me through this wonderful story:

In 2016, a small, slightly damaged oil painting was drug out of a basement in New Jersey. The owners figured it would fetch several hundred benjamins (those are hundred dollar bills if you can’t track with my flyness) at auction because it looked oldish and had some character. Imagine their shock when someone told them they’d had a Rembrandt tucked away in their dingy basement in Jersey all these years.

The small painting, it turns out, was part of Rembrandt’s early series on the five senses. When I say early, he was about 18 when he painted the work pictured above. After being purchased for close to $1 million, it has been on display at the Getty Museum in California.

The real tragedy of that painting being left in an unseen corner is that the work couldn’t be enjoyed by others and the artist couldn’t receive credit for his work. 

On a far greater scale, how tragic is it that you and me, masterpieces of God, could live as though stuck in a gloomy basement or stuffy attic, neglecting to reflect the glory of our Creator and failing to be awe-inspiring displays of His genius and attention to detail…

This consideration leads us to the second lie.

LIE #2: What you do isn’t important.

Hot on the heels of attacking identity, Satan’s next move is to go after responsibility. In fact, I’m convinced that one of his primary tactics is to blur the lines in our minds and get us to confuse the two, so that I become what I do. Thus, what I’m doing (or not doing) becomes who I am (or who I am not).

It’s part of the reason one of the first questions guys ask one another is ‘what do you do for a living’. As if what you do tells me what I need to know about who you are. Only if you tell me you’re a ventriloquist, then I feel like I know all I need to know.

But no matter what someone does, the whispers come…

  • It isn’t significant enough.
  • It isn’t noteworthy enough.
  • It doesn’t make enough money.
  • It won’t make a lasting enough impact.

For the last decade, I have gone all in on the lie that I have to do something grand, something large-scale, something that people would talk about and perhaps even line up to see or experience.

It’s no surprise that over that same period I never had strong sense of my identity as a son of God. I was so wrapped up in doing things for God that I had never absorbed being loved by God.

Until you feel loved by God, you’ll feel like you have to perform at a certain, undefined and also unattainable level.

It turns out the significance of what we do isn’t wrapped up in what we do.

The Apostle Paul’s instructions to slaves in first century Colossae give us marching orders today

Slaves, obey your human masters in everything. Don’t work only while being watched, as people-pleasers, but work wholeheartedly, fearing the Lord. 23 Whatever you do, do it from the heart, as something done for the Lord and not for people, 24 knowing that you will receive the reward of an inheritance from the Lord. You serve the Lord Christ. (Colossians 3.22-24, CSB)

These verses say nothing about what you do. But they say everything about how and why you do it.

Wholeheartedly. Not for the applause or approval of people. Work as unto the Lord for from Him you will receive your reward.

Bottom line? Your attitude and mine is what keeps what we do from being significant.

It’s not about going out and starting something new or building something bigger.

It’s about acknowledging that you are God’s handiwork and as such,  living faithfully so that you put His artistry and majesty on display for the world to see.

 

 

 

Set it on fire

Posted on by Patrick L. Mitchell

night-fire-easter-celebration

Happy Thanksgiving.

Merry Christmas.

Happy New Year

These are such assumptive holidays and celebrations. After all, what if 2017 mainly represents failed hopes?

What if I look back over the year and the things that burst to the top of my mind with the force of an instant pot gone loco are failures, losses, pain, regrets, and the like? Pardon me if there doesn’t seem to be a lot of Feliz in my Navidad this year.

Oh, and by the way, Happy New Year! Happy New Year? Sure, the hap-hap-happiest New Year ever! I look forward to more of what happened last year. Which, if I’m being honest, amounts to a whole lot of regret.

Why regret? Have I mentioned I didn’t keep my resolutions in 2017? I never lost the 15 pounds (but I did put on 5). I didn’t write on my blog each week like I said. My marriage isn’t any stronger because of my Notebook-esque heart-pursuing, romance inducing practices. I stopped reading ‘thru the Bible in a year’ at Leviticus because Leviticus (I actually made it all the way through this year, but I know the plight of any whose tears left the pages upon pages of temple procedures bonded together forever).

2017 year-in-review: didn’t do it, never started, couldn’t stop, didn’t finish, wish I had, wish I hadn’t…

These thoughts are fresh on my mind after preparing for our church’s Christmas Eve service this year. Several people in my congregation faced loss or are staring it in the face in 2018. Some of our families had one less seat filled at Thanksgiving dinner. There were fewer presents under the Christmas tree and an indescribable fullness missing from the conversation. When one voice is lost, we all lose a piece of our own as well.

No matter what kind of year you may have had in 2017, here comes 2018 like a bat out of Helsinki. She’s inviting you in. Will you go reluctantly, expectantly, brazenly, cautiously?

The Apostle Paul was a guy who’d had highs and lows like none other. If you’re skeptical, read some of 2 Corinthians 11. But in spite of peaks and valleys and the in-between, he had this to say:

But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and reaching forward to what is ahead, 14 I pursue as my goal the prize promised by God’s heavenly call in Christ Jesus. 15 Therefore, let all of us who are mature think this way. And if you think differently about anything, God will reveal this also to you … (CSB)

There’s a level of maturity required to leave the past in the past and press on to the future. Erwin McManus devotes a couple of chapters in his new book to the idea of setting your past on fire. You make an altar of those things, good or bad, and light it up as you walk in slow motion toward the future.

It doesn’t mean you don’t remember people or forsake experiences. But there comes a time for us all to let go of whatever is hindering us. That could be a failed weight loss goal. But it might also be the loss of a loved one. A cancer diagnosis (saw too many of those in my circles in 2017). A dream job that has become a nightmare.

I don’t know what comes to your mind when you think of what (or who) you’d like to leave behind in 2017. For me, there are a few “didn’t do its” I’d like to just fuhgeddaboutit.

  • I didn’t write a blog with consistency. And I have excuses. Good ones. But they’re excuses. Goal fail.
  • I didn’t get 9-pack abs. My excuse? I eat too much. Oh food. I need you. I want you.  Goal fail.
  • I didn’t become more of the husband I want to be. Excuse, you ask? Pride…I chose to honor me instead of she. Goal fail.

There are more goal fail bullet points seared into my brain, but I’m trying to leave them behind for crying out loud.

How about you?

What must you leave behind in order to forge ahead into a brighter tomorrow? It’s that thought, that voice, that experience, that failure that’s weighing you down like Fat Albert on a bobsled team.

You can’t leave your cancer behind…it’s going with you. But perhaps there’s a new level of faith or an attitude you’d like to invite in. No amount of optimism will bring your loved one back to life…but what if you take that loss and channel it into choosing a fuller life this year in some capacity?

Within the realm of what you can control, what decisions will you make so that you aren’t sitting in the same seat on the regret bus come December 30, 2018?

What behaviors have to change? What habits have to be broken? How much pain and discomfort are you willing to endure in order to see growth or healing?

I wish I could invite you to cyber slap me if you find out I’m not following through on what I’m setting out to do and be in 2018. But I do plan on having better accountability and invite you to do the same wherever you are.

Share your goals and aspirations with people who are for you and love you and, even in the South, will tell you the stank nasty truth when necessary.

So, here’s you to 2017! The altar is set. The match is lit. Toss on 3.

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A question I could have used 10 years ago…but at least I have today

Posted on by Patrick L. Mitchell

pexels-photo-298018Some questions are clearly rhetorical, right?

Some, however, are not. So let me share one I heard in an interview of Bob Goff.

When asked about growth and personal development, here is what Bob said he asks himself

What does the next humblest version of me look like?

In other words, I’m this level of humble now. What would the next level of humble look like? What would change? How would I treat people differently? What are things I wouldn’t say any more? What are things I would begin to say or say more often? What habits would I need to form to reach that next level of humble?

Some questions are meant to be answered.

And in order to answer them, you have to accost yourself, your preferences, opinions, defaults, self-perception. After all, there is no growth without struggle.

What does the next humblest version of you look like?